


Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

by DocDimebag



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Death, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DocDimebag/pseuds/DocDimebag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Bobbles. As most things are. Steter normally gives me the heebie-jeebies because Peter is just a heebie-jeebie kinda' guy but when I don't actually watch the show? That's when I can make the head-canon work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rionarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rionarch/gifts).



He couldn't sleep. He hadn't been able to sleep in weeks. At first he thought it was left over adrenaline, his body still on high alert after everything that had happened. After all dying was pretty high up on that list of life stressors. It was when the panic attacks started that he realized it was more than just a new found lust for life. He'd woken up in a cold sweat falling for air in the same way he had after the bath tub, he could swear his lungs were full of the same frigid water that had killed him. He'd clutched at the sheets as if to pull himself up from the murky depths that had swallowed him and it wasn't until his eyes adjusted that he remembered where we was, remembered what had happened and most importantly, remembered that he was alive.

Two weeks later and he'd given up on sleeping all together. The second time his father had come running into his room in the middle of the night, eyes wide with fear, his stomach had twisted in guilty knots that made him sick. So now, instead of sleeping he read, he researched, he did anything he could to keep himself from sleeping. To keep himself from dying all over again.

Sometimes he'd nod off sitting at his desk or in the middle of class and jerk awake, heart hammering and he'd have to bite his tongue, occasionally mouth filling slowly with blood to keep his fear in. Sure the pack noticed, even with all their own Wolfy dramas they noticed how Stiles didn't seem to bounce with energy anymore. Noticed the heavy bags under his eyes, noticed that he wasn't quite Stiles anymore. Most of them wrote it off as the eventual cynical maturing that was sure to come with martyrdom. Scott had once asked but Stiles could tell his heart wasn't in it. It wasn't that he didn't care but rather that he was otherwise occupied. Stiles got it, so he shrugged it off and Scott didn't bring it up again.

When Derek asked Stiles knew it had to be getting bad. Derek bringing up feelings? Derek showing concern? For him? He knew he couldn't go on forever like this, a human can only go so long without asleep before everything starts to shut down but at night, as he sat in his desk chair staring at his well made bed, he couldn't find the courage to lady down on it.

He was afraid of sleep. Stiles Stilinski, afraid to close his eyes and sleep like some kindergartner refusing nap time. That was just what he told himself though. The real fear was much to great, much to real to admit even to himself. He feared dying. He was afraid of laying down to sleep and death coming back to claim him and this time not let him come back. The darkness that lived behind his eyelids waiting for that right moment to consume him. He couldn't do that to Scott, couldn't do it to the pack, certainly couldn't do it to his dad. Mostly though, he couldn't face it himself. The hardest part to admit was that he was terrified of death. Of all the times he'd faced it, stared right into its shiny black eyes, he'd finally gotten a good look and he was petrified.

So instead he sat there, hands baked into firsts around the worn sleeves of his hoodie, trying to decide how he'd pass this night, when a thud at his window nearly knocked him out of his chair.

"Jumpy, are we? " Peter said and never before had Stiles been so grateful to see him.

"When you sneak in through my damn window in the middle of the night, yea! What the hell are you doing?"

Peter shut the window carefully behind him and shrugged out of his jacket casually, surveying the room around him and seemingly making himself right at home.

"Derek has been worrying his pretty little head off, terrified that you might fall asleep behind the wheel or while operating heavy machinery. So much so that I can't even get a decent night's rest so I decided it was time I took matters into my own hands"

Stiles looked at him warily, not completely sure what he was planning.

"You're not here to force me into a coma or anything, are you? Because that face your making coupled with your cryptic explains aren't putting me much at ease."

Peter laughed and sauntered over to the bedroom door, closing it softly before reaching out for the light switch.

"I'm here to make sure you sleep, Stiles. So sleep you will. Now would you like to change or do you always sleep in your jeans?"

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"You're here to force me to sleep? What are you? The Sleep Police or something?"

Peter sighed.

"Stiles, despite what you angsty teenagers believe, I am not, in fact, stupid. How long has it been since you slept more than an hour at a time? Few weeks?"

Stiles looked at him sheepishly.

"Right. What I thought. Now get on that damn bed before I drag you to it"

Peter flicked the light off and in the darkness Stiles' heart began to race. His fingernails dug into him palms as he willed his eyes to adjust.

"Stiles. I'm not above dragging you over here"

He made a small distressed noise that he hoped sounded like exasperation as he slowly stood up and shuffled his way to the bed. He tried to feel his way across the mattress and nearly let out an incredibly undignified yelp when he felt someone else on the bed.

"What are you doing!?" He said with as much anger as he could muster through the dear lodged in his throat.

"Well you didn't think I was just going to watch you sleep all night, did you?" He could hear the smile in Peters voice and it set hits teeth on edge. "The bed's more than big enough Stiles, grow up. I don't bite." He chuckled "well, unless you ask me to."

Stiles huffed and laid himself down on the bed carefully, turning his back to Peter as he tried to make himself as uncomfortable as possible to keep himself from falling into sleep.

A few minutes passed in silence. Stiles concentrated on counting his breaths, ticked the numbers off on his fingers. When Peter spoke next he nearly missed it.

"Death has no agenda you know. Doesn't have you down on some kind of list, The Ones That Got Away or anything. There is no Grimm Reaper, and you of all people should know that. Death is a thing that happens, something you can't control and can't fight. I know, I've tried."

Stiles stilled as he listened, the soft and steady timbre of Peters voice a careful sort of comfort in the still darkness. A type of comfort he had neither expected nor asked for.

"You can close your eyes and it won't find you. That's not how it works. If it makes you feel better if anything does come to eat your pretty little ass up I'll hear it long before it's got you in its teeth "

Stiles sagged a little into the mattress, head just a little more comfortable on the pillow. Behind him he felt Peter shift closer, the heat from him radiating through his sweatshirt. He felt his hand first on his arm, tentative and slow, heat sinking in to the skin, then down to his chest where his tired lungs felt weak and worn, clogged with weeks of tension and fear.

"Just breath, Stiles. No beasties are going to get you. Not tonight."

And for the first time in weeks, he did. His lungs filled with air, not water, never water, and the black resin of fear seemed to fall in away from his throat as his heart unclenched and body bowed back into Peter.

"Just like that. Good boy."

His breath was a warm guest on the back of Stiles' neck and in that instant he felt warm. Incredibly warm. Unbelievably warm, so much so that he could hardly recall what it has felt like to drown, how his chest had frozen over and every muscle had clenched so hard he felt as if he were on the verge of shattering.

Peter pulled him back against his chest, his mouth warm against his neck as Stiles clutched at the hand still firm against his chest and for the first time since he had died, Stiles drifted into a warm, easy sleep.


End file.
